


Death is no parenthesis

by victoria_p (musesfool)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Tag, Gen, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-19
Updated: 2010-09-19
Packaged: 2017-10-12 00:22:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/118770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You say it out loud, <cite>Dean</cite>, and it feels familiar on your tongue, has the proper weight to be the first word you've ever spoken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Death is no parenthesis

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to angelgazing for handholding.

The tickle of something along your cheek wakes you up. You press your face against the spongy surface you're lying on, but beyond that first half-inch, there's no give. Not a bed, then. Your heart beats loud and heavy in your ears, Dean, Dean, Dean, it says, and you wonder if that's your name.

You say it out loud, Dean, and it feels familiar on your tongue, has the proper weight to be the first word you've ever spoken.

You wait for the warm, heavy hand to land on your back, the sour sweat and gun solvent smell of his skin, the rough, familiar voice to tell you it's okay, but nothing comes.

You sigh and slump against whatever it is you're lying on, and finally force your eyes open. You're lying on the foam mat of a playground, right beside the seesaw. Dean isn't there. No one is there. You're surprised no one's called the cops yet about the derelict lying next to the seesaw, and the thought of the cops is enough to get you to push yourself up into a sitting position. You have to close your eyes again, because the world spins faster than the merry-go-round creaking slowly in circles, pushed by the wind.

That's kind of creepy, the kind of creepy you're familiar with, and you quickly catalogue the indications of a haunting; the air smells of ozone and the hair on the back of your neck prickles, but you only come up with the kind of warm summer breeze that comes ahead of a thunderstorm, and when you look up, the sky is heavy with greenish-black clouds.

You're wearing a jacket that's too heavy for the warmth of the day, but you pull it tight around you as the rain starts pelting down. You get up, legs trembling underneath you, and vertigo hits again, the ground a lot further away than you were expecting. You blink and shake your head to clear it, and stumble over your own feet into the monkey bars, which you hold onto for a long moment, resting your forehead against the smooth, wet metal. The rain soaks your hair, slides cool and slippery beneath the collar of your jacket, and you shiver in the heat.

You straighten up again, roll your shoulders and work the kinks out of your neck. You can do this. You're not sure yet what _this_ is, but you can definitely do it. You _have_ to do it. (You've done worse.) You push your wet hair off your forehead and start walking towards the houses that ring the playground.

Cars are stopped at a red light when you reach the crosswalk, but none that have long, sleek, black lines, none that say _home_ in the guttural growl of their engines or the bright gleam of their chrome. You walk slowly, don't make it all the way across before the light turns green. You stand on the island in the middle of the street, boots crushing the grass, sinking into the dirt. You remember falling, endlessly, and the quick jerk of stopping, the knowledge that you weren't alone in your head then, but you are now. You blink and the light changes. The screech of brakes startles you and you slip off the curb into a puddle, soaking the laces of your boots, which will be a bitch to unknot now.

You're surprised at the clarity of the memory, after the way everything has been so fuzzy around the edges, of looking up at someone (at _Dean_ ) through your bangs and insisting you could do it yourself, could get the muddy, stiffened knots out of your bootlaces, and his half-encouraging, half-exasperated laugh in response.

You take in your surroundings and the sight of the Cicero Motel clicks in your brain, like the last piece of the puzzle. You're an arrow now, a heat-seeking missile, an iron needle aimed at true north. You know where you're going, though you've never been there before.

You stop at the edge of the driveway, stand under a streetlight, and watch a family eat dinner together. You don't flinch when the light above your head fizzles and pops, leaving you in shadow. You walk up the driveway and ring the bell, your whole body humming with anxiety and anticipation.

The door opens and he's standing there, framed by the dark wood, lit from behind by soft yellow light.

"Sammy?" His voice is a disbelieving rasp.

You smile and pull him into your arms. He smells of Jack Daniels, hair gel, and sweat.

"Dean," you say.

His hands clutch at your shoulders, and you know you've come home.

end

~*~


End file.
